A year and a half or so ago, I wrote a short story called "Neighbors," detailing the adventures of Roy the demon, a guard on Hell's south gate. Roy is your typical seven-and-a-half-feet-tall red devil, horns, like that, beset by the little old lady who lives next door, and who comes off second best in the encounter.
It was strange, and, if I do say so myself, funny little story that ended with the line "Hell was little old ladies with cats."
Eventually, I stuck it up on Amazon.com, packaged with a couple other stories I wrote, and went on my merry way.
Yesterday, for some reason, Roy came up in my thoughts: I had an image of him playing Texas Hold 'Em at a table with some other demons. So, as I do when these things fall upon me from the aether, I wrote the scene.
One scene led to another. For those of you not writers, the progression is not that difficult. You just keep wondering: And then what happened? And you write down what you think happens next, and eventually, you get to the end of the story.
I'm have an idea -- though I'm not certain -- where the tale is going to end up, but I already have Roy losing the hand of cards and having to work somebody's shift -- they play poker for time chits, in Hell.
Right now, he's doing the stint as an A&R (Arts and Repertoire) guy in the Music Section of Hell, and listening to some really, really bad musical acts.
I'll let you know how it goes ...